


Sully

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Facials, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:58:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3287768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard works his way to a naughty reprieve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sully

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “I want Bard to give Thranduil the messiest, sexiest blow job ever, and then jerk off to the sight of a totally wrecked Thranduil and come all over him” request on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=25282421#t25282421).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s best when the king has a bit of wine in him, when he gets over the disgrace of accepting a filthy bargeman into Mirkwood, dressed in rags with matted hair and dirt beneath his fingernails. At first, Bard has to play coy, be clever with his words and promising in all his looks, until he’s told to wait for the barrels to be properly emptied. 

Then he has to linger around the king’s throne, let Thranduil sit back and luxuriate in the throes of his kingdom and the prideful way he boasts of it all to Bard, gesturing vaguely about his halls and speaking of all its glory. Bard will nod along and say little respectful, peaceable things, and maybe sit at the Elf King’s feet and lean against his knees, pretend to submit just to make Thranduil shiver with want and hurry the game along.

Sometimes, Bard has to drop hints—he can’t be gone too long, he left the little ones with only an old neighbour who can’t watch them forever. Thranduil always frowns and makes a little note that perhaps, just perhaps, they could arrange for Bard to live a little closer. Not in the castle, of course; he isn’t an _elf_ , and Mirkwood is no place to raise three children. And Bard is attached to his home all the same, even if it is decrepit and falling down and ruled by a greedy Master with nothing on Thranduil’s wisdom and beauty. 

Sometimes, Bard will say that, too—he comes here because he craves a proper king, that Thranduil is the finest in all of Middle Earth, even if, of course, Bard still privately dreams of a human-run Dale. 

His compliments tend to earn him self-knowing smirks and closer touches, until they’re down from the throne, through the long halls, with the occasional sentinel glaring at Bard for the mud he tracks over the polished floor. It’s no concern of Thranduil’s; he has servants to delegate the cleanup to. Thranduil only draws closer to Bard, like whispering of conspiracies, with his perfect, regal posture and his grand, shimmering crown. His voice is always warmer when he’s had a pleasant feast, and he speaks more candidly of how he so thoroughly enjoys _possessing_ things, even lesser, ephemeral things like gems dug up from the earth and men with attractive figures. 

Bard smiles along with these things, because he’s _tired_. Laketown is a miserable place, he has too many mouths to feed on too little a salary, the Master and Alfrid are always looking grotesquely over his shoulder, and sometimes he just wants the freedom to enjoy the pleasant touch of a man too stunning for words. 

When they reach Thranduil’s bedroom, they’re finally alone, and Bard listens quietly while Thranduil drawls of elks and gathering spiders and the troubles of the woods. Thranduil pulls the silver robes from his shoulders, never too drunk to be graceful. The fabric slithers from his trim body and pools on the floor, the loose tunic beneath staying on as he turns to look at Bard. 

Bard leans his shoulder against the door, arms crossed as he watches Thranduil, hoping, perhaps, for more. He never minds tearing the clothes from Thranduil’s body himself, but he also can’t resist a strip-show. He looks at Thranduil with one quirked eyebrow and a lopsided grin on his face, encouraging and hungry. Thranduil strolls back to him with only lazy steps, then lifts a hand to cup his cheek. 

Thranduil’s thumb brushes across the scruff of his beard, and Thranduil sighs, eyeing Bard’s overcoat with mild disdain, “Are you not going to remove your rags?”

Bard turns to run his tongue up Thranduil’s palm, because licking is cruder than kissing, and he enjoys the fire that puts in Thranduil’s eyes. 

Thranduil brings his other hand to Bard’s other side, holding his face and turning it. Thranduil parts his lip when he moves in, only coming in for a chaste, brisk kiss, but Bard lunges forward and clamps his teeth around Thranduil’s bottom lip, dragging them on the way out. In the midst of Thranduil’s gasp, Bard shoves his tongue into Thranduil’s open mouth, his fingers darting to tangle in Thranduil’s hair. It’s silk-satin in his fingers, but when he twists his hands enough, he can form little knots, a sterner grip, and he tears at Thranduil’s mouth, licking up all the remnants of wine.

Thranduil, almost trembling with want, lets himself be dragged to the ground. Bard makes his knees collapse, pushes him lower, holds onto his hair and the edges of his crown to make sure he can’t escape. Every time Thranduil tries to turn his face away, Bard kisses him harder, bites his lips more and licks at the edges of his mouth to make it overflow with Bard’s spit, mar it with the red, angry marks of too rough a kiss. Thranduil only lightly holds him back, trying, still, to be elegant and fair, but Bard is a run-ragged man from a collapsing town with no skill in luxury. 

He shoves Thranduil back against the floor, loving the way that Thranduil bends for him, still meeting kisses and clutching on. His arms wrap around Bard’s neck like he wants to be taken _now_ , right here along the stone, only a few paces from the bed they rarely make it to. But Bard has other plans, other tastes, and he detangles from Thranduil’s grip with a final nip to Thranduil’s chin. 

Thranduil looks particularly beautiful bearing Bard’s marks. The bruises never last long: Elven complexion eats wounds like so much dust. Thranduil will be flawless again in the morning, and Bard will be back on a boat for home, as grubby as he always is. For now, he runs the backs of his fingers along the teeth marks gnawed into Thranduil’s skin, and Thranduil’s eyelids lower, the silver irises being swallowed by the black. He will do Bard the honour of wearing the marks until dawn, because if Thranduil didn’t want things a little messy, he wouldn’t have taken up with a man out of the dredges. 

Bard presses a firm kiss to the underside of Thranduil’s jaw, then moves on down Thranduil’s body. He doesn’t tear the fabric open—though light and fluid, Elven material is strong as mail. And the king would not enjoy his possessions ruined: only his body. So Bard merely runs his fingernails down it, trailing clods of dirt and muddy water and wrinkling the smooth expanse, right down to the hand-spun hem around Thranduil’s delicate waist. 

Hovering over the Elf King’s body is always a joy. Sometimes, he isn’t so lucky—Thranduil will be feistier, Thranduil will want to claim him hard, or Thranduil will want to be pressed into a wall or lying, equal, on their sides. Today, he stays on the floor: a good lover waiting for his pleasure. Bard rewards him by nuzzling into the dark fabric of his trousers, where a bulge is already rising. When Bard runs his face down it, he can feel the imprint of Thranduil’s cock, long and thick and slightly curved, lifting to meet him. He opens his mouth around the base, just to dampen the rich fabric, and Thranduil grits his teeth to hiss. 

Bard doesn’t so much unlace the tie as force it open, tugging trousers down and tunic up, rearranging fabric with quick shoves and kisses in between. Bard has always fantasized that he will, one day, find the great king naked beneath his robes, but that has yet to happen. So Bard muddles through, pushing back all the barriers, until he’s left with smooth, spotless skin. He frees Thranduil’s cock from its confines, finding it full and hard in his hands. He strokes it, once, right up the base, his blunt fingernails just barely scratching the skin, and Thranduil groans, voice as pretty as the rest of him. 

His cock is just as clean as the rest of him. Even the veins that run along it are in thin, pleasant curves, the golden-pink hue even all the way through, except for the slow gradient to a darker red near the tip, where the head so neatly crowns through the foreskin. The little bead that forms out the slit is like a tiny pearl, and Bard laps it away with one stroke of his broad tongue. His hand curls tightly around the base, the other steadying himself on Thranduil’s thigh. His hair spills down around him, so much more unruly than Thranduil’s. He opens his mouth, eyes flicking up to his charge. 

Then he plunges down, takes it all the way, uses years of experience to mold himself to the curves and swallows it all at once. Thranduil _screams_. His body arches off the floor, though Bard holds his hips down, and a second later, long fingers are twisting in his hair. Bard’s never minded it rough and doesn’t stop. He simply adjusts his lips around the wide girth, his beard nestled against Thranduil’s tight, hairless balls. When Bard sucks, he does it _hard_ , hollowing out his cheeks and taking everything he can, and Thranduil moans as loud as a siren. His hips try to buck up, but Bard holds firm. 

Bard pulls off in one quick, rough motion, sucking as he goes, then stabs back down barely a second later, all the way to nuzzle his nose into the light blond hair of Thranduil’s stomach. Another suck, and Bard’s up again, his teeth just short of scraping. He starts to bob his head on and off, ridiculously fast, and his hair flies about him in the effort, wet, obscene sucking sounds puncturing the air. Saliva wells up in his mouth quickly and trickles out around his lips, Bard unwilling to pull off to lick it up. He lets it drizzle down Thranduil’s cock instead. It glistens with the effort, turning pinker, filling with blood, as Bard impales himself over and over on Thranduil’s waiting dick. 

Thranduil starts squirming in no time. He must have attendants to see to his needs, but none of them are like Bard. None of them will fuck themselves on Thranduil’s cock like this, sucking and licking and tugging all at once, twisting here and there to hit different angles and letting the tip slap lewdly against the back of their throat. There is nothing neat, nothing graceful, about the way Bard sucks cock. It’s dirty and messy and all around obscene, with his mouth stretched wide and his spittle everywhere and the scratch of his unkempt beard and unwashed hair. His own skin is stained and torn compared to Thranduil’s splendor, and Bard magnifies it with his actions, with his crude experience, the lowborn, back alley techniques of taking another man’s dick. The best part is that Thranduil seems to _love it_ , and he kneads his fingers through Bard’s straggled hair and tries to hold Bard down, tries to shove up to hump his face. When Bard’s glowing red from the heat and force of his thrusts, he pulls off, using his own break as an instrument of Thranduil’s punishment for squirming. He still holds Thranduil’s hips down. 

He buries his face between Thranduil’s legs instead, sucking one heavy ball into his mouth at a time. He rolls them around on his tongue, wets them with more spit and tugs them in his teeth, making Thranduil writhe and gasp, while his fingers lock around Thranduil’s dripping cock and squeeze. When he laps and nips at Thranduil’s sac, he uses his thumb and index finger to play with Thranduil’s foreskin, gathering it down and pumping along the head, sticking his fingers in to stroke the little slit. The more places Bard puts his mouth, the more Thranduil loses control. When Bard does return his attentions to the eager shaft in his hands, he does it by running his tongue up it, then tugging the head between his lips, lapping away like a dog slobbering over a particularly juice bone. 

And then he’s impaled himself on it again, mouth stretched wide and throat lax to take as much as it can. He works back into shoving on and off faster than Thranduil can keep up with, suckling on the way and absorbing the musky smell, the slightly salty taste, the too-smooth feel and the heady sounds of Thranduil’s moans. He can hear that Thranduil’s close to breaking. It only makes him suck all the harder. He’s deliberately sloppy, filthy and vulgar, because nothing gets him harder than sullying Thranduil’s Elven beauty, and finally he just straddles Thranduil’s leg and grinds his own cock into it as he fucks his way to Thranduil’s completion. 

He pulls off when Thranduil shrieks, only so he can point Thranduil’s cock as he chooses. The first load splatters Bard’s face, clinging to his jaw and dripping down his cheeks, catching in his open mouth and his hanging out tongue, but the rest Bard points up towards Thranduil’s face, because he always likes to see Thranduil covered in cum. It paints all over Thranduil’s chest, gluing down his tunic, and makes it all the way up to his chin. Bard’s fist keeps pumping it out while it goes, milking every last drop. When only a few drizzling remains are left, Bard laps those away, swallowing whatever he can. 

Then he pushes up to sit, to look at Thranduil’s utterly wrecked body, spread out along the floor and overcome with heat and pleasure. Spent, Thranduil barely looks at him. He must know that Bard isn’t finished. 

In a few short movements, Bard’s throwing his leg over Thranduil’s shoulder, and he sits on Thranduil’s chest, only to pull his own cock out of his trousers. Pointing it right at Thranduil’s face, he shoves the head against Thranduil’s kiss-swollen bottom lip and drags it along the seam. Thranduil does nothing, only looks up at him with hazy eyes. Bard wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s difficult to overwhelm an elf, no less a king, but he’s managed. He grabs his own cock and jerks himself off to the sight of Thranduil’s shallow breaths and almost-sweaty skin. 

He comes all over Thranduil’s face, half letting it splash along Thranduil’s fair skin and half rubbing it into certain places, like the cleft of Thranduil’s chin and the bridge of his nose and the corners of his lips. He’s always handsome, of course, but he looks the best undone like this, and Bard takes pride in painting him up with a lowly human’s seed.

Even when Bard’s finished, he humps Thranduil’s face a few times for effect. Thranduil just looks away, letting Bard’s flagging cock slide along his cheek. Finally, Thranduil sweeps his tongue along his lips, pushing the stray cum there out of the way. 

He looks up at Bard and says, quiet but powerful, “Stay.”

Bard nods. For one night, perhaps. The times where he stays are the times where their relationship grows. And he could go again, he supposes, in a little while, once they’ve cleaned off and stripped down and settled under sheets ten times the worth of Bard’s at home. 

And then, perhaps, they’ll lie together, with gentle touches and affectionate looks, and Bard will, just maybe, speak three words he hasn’t said in years. 

But he might need some wine before that. 

He gets tiredly to his feet and offers a hand, helping up the man he loves.


End file.
